


Flowers For The Fallen

by Arision



Category: The Hobbit - All Media Types, The Lord of the Rings - All Media Types
Genre: Canonical Character Death, Comfort, Flower meanings, Gen, Grave visiting, Grief/Mourning, I love this universe, Implied Bagginshield, It's REALLY mild I promise, Mild canon divergence, all the feels
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-02-14
Updated: 2013-02-14
Packaged: 2017-11-29 06:12:07
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,871
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/683748
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Arision/pseuds/Arision
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He had traveled many a long day, over mountain and dale and valley, to say good-bye to old friends in the way of the Shire.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Flowers For The Fallen

**Author's Note:**

> I wanted to give you all a Valentine's Day present. You are all my valentines! Hope you enjoy this!

“To love at all is to be vulnerable.”

-C.S. Lewis

* * *

 

“Why are we here, Uncle?  And what are those stone lumps?”

Young Frodo held onto the edge of Bilbo’s coat, half following and half hovering in case his elder should need assistance.   He had not been allowed to help carry his uncle’s bundles, and the fifteen year old kept pace with the much older hobbit beside him, his eyes wide in wonder as he gazed at massive tomb stones and carvings of fallen Dwarf warriors of all kinds.  The road to this quiet place, here in the shadow of a solitary mountain, was one more in the long list of incredible things he had seen on their journey east.  But the most interesting by far were the three stone piles separated from the rest of the graves, through either design or unconscious respect.

There was mostly silver in Bilbo’s hair now, shot through with the rare streak of brown, and his skin was lined and leathered with the sign of aging.  He was stouter about the middle, and if he moved slower than he had during his last visit to this mighty place, well.  There was no one to remark upon it save his nephew.

“We are here to say hello to some old friends of mine, Frodo my boy.” he said with a wistful sigh, minding his steps over slightly broken ground.

“And those stone piles?”, the younger hobbit prodded after a few moments too long of silence.  He was still gazing at them in bright wonder, more taken with these epitaphs than any other in this resting place.  Bilbo was secretly pleased with his response, even if he worried that Frodo’s friends from the Shire might not think too well of him for going on an adventure so young.

“Those, nephew, are tombs.” he said, in an effort to distract himself from that line of thought, “And very important ones at that.”

Frodo was a quick lad, Bilbo would admit, and always had been.  Yet is took an almost deplorably long time for him to realizes what, and more importantly _whom_ , lay in the three side-by-side tombs they were slowly making their way towards.

“Not the line of Durin, the ones from your stories!”, he breathed with awe and the tiniest touch of disbelief.  Bilbo gave a single nod of approval.

“Just so, lad.  Just so.”

After he had said this, there was silence but for the whisper of the wind through long grasses.  They stepped into a rough circle of open space between the grave yard proper and their destination, and a strange and respectful hush seemed to fall over even nature as the two hobbits approached the tombs of the fallen.   The last resting place of three dwarves so great of heart and courage, Bilbo doubted Middle-Earth would ever truly see their like again.

He stepped to the left most tomb first, Frodo at his elbow, to place a hand upon one large boot of a figure fashioned as if sleeping.  The unyeilding passage of time had barely touched the lovely craftsmanship, weathering the sharp edges carved with so much love and care only marginally.  Bilbo half-expected the figure to open one eye and wink at him, so great was the detail.

  Braids fashioned with fastidious attention, and capped with intricate silver beads adorned each side of a well maintained beard and dotted the wavy mane of glorious hair. The twin swords the figure clutched to it’s chest matched the ones it’s model had wielded to the last during his wild life.  But the colors were wrong in Bilbo’s eyes: White instead of sun-gold locks, peach, and steel.  Stone, not leather, fur, and skin.  Cold, not even a hint of warmth stolen from the sun that shone high overhead.

“Fili.” he murmured, even that quiet word impossibly loud in the eerie silence that enveloped this place, and Bilbo’s eyes blurred momentarily.  Unable to say anything more, because no words he had would do justice to the loving, mischievous, and noble dwarf that lay beneath this stone, he lay a bundle of flowers silently in the gap between the carved blades, where it would be sheltered from the wind.

Pale roses, delphinium, gladiolus, and blooms of edelweiss combined into a patchwork of white, purple, and yellow.  Bilbo gave the carving’s hand a pat, then moved onto the one on the far side of the right.  Frodo followed at his heels, moved with emotion he had no name for.  He was struck nearly dumb to be standing before the graves of beings his uncle had told him grand and incredible stories of for nearly two and a half years.  He could hardly believe it all was real.

Unaware of Frodo, Bilbo stood before the second tomb, exactly like it’s twin.  The two depicted were matched as perfectly in death as they had been in life, and there was some justice in that.

There were only two small braids here, in a wild tangle of curls that Bilbo remembered as the color of sable.  No beard, only the ghosting of stubble along the curve of a stubborn jaw and a strong chin, framing a face that may have been considered unattractive by Dwarf standards, but had moved more than one Elf and Man to swooning.  Bilbo may have been affected a time or two himself.  These hands clutched not blades, like his brother, but a short bow and a quiver of deadly fletched arrows.  These had protected his companions from many a danger on their ill-fated quest to reclaim their lost kingdom.

“Kili.” he managed, trying to speak around the growing limp in his throat.  Words again failed him in finding an accurate way to portray all that this dwarf had been in his lifetime.  He laid a second bundle alongside the quiver, clutched in fingers that had been nimble in far more than war.  The old hobbit had flashes of the dwarf braiding his brother’s golden hair, stealing an apple from under the watchful eye of Bombur and his wicked wooden spoon, of reaching out and tugging a handful of Bilbo’s curls when he teased about something or other.

For this trickster and perpetual loser-of-ponies, the bundle was gladiolus, red hyacinth, crocus, and pale roses.  It was more colorful, but certainly not more heart felt, than his brother’s. 

Bilbo turned now to the middle figure, knowing he’d saved the most painful for last.  His heart was bleeding as he approached the final resting place of the one he had called king, and yet had failed so spectacularly.  The hand he laid to this carving cupped the fallen ruler’s proud jaw, traced the craggy jut of his nose, and brushed softly against the lines of his lips.

“Thorin.”, he managed to choke out, no louder than a whisper, and the threat of tears became a reality.  This cold and unfeeling stone could never adequately convey the majesty of the dwarf lying cold and alone in it’s embrace.  Not his command nor charisma.  It showed not the banked embers of his eyes, nor the darkness of his wiry hair just touched with pale threads of maturity.  Bilbo was reminded painfully of the king’s towering rage as he’d banished the hobbit from his halls, and of his deep regret as they made amends upon his death bed.  Bilbo still despised even the mention of that retched Arkenstone, and not for the first time wished fiercely that he had simply chucked that cursed thing into the river, where hopefully none would ever find it.

Upon this tomb, and beside the unsheathed Orcrist which showed no glow to mark the approach of goblin or orc, he placed his third and last bundle.  Purple hyacinth, gladiolus, sunflowers, and sprigs of arbutus.  He then traced another stroke over the likeness of this dwarf, and his tears were coming so thick, he could barely breath between his sobs.  He could not see for his grief, and missed the way the droplets fell upon the carved visage in such a manner that it, too, appeared to be weeping.

For lost time, for the damage that pride and obstinacy did to the bonds of all peoples, for losing chances at life’s most precious gifts.  Frodo stood well way now, almost back into the graveyard proper, attempting to give his uncle as much space and solitude as he possibly could without actually wandering off. 

After a time of great weeping and mourning, Bilbo Baggins, thief and gentlehobbit, raised his head, and took a last look at the face of the fallen.  Once more, his fingers swept across cold lips but even here, even now, he would not take that which he had wanted most since first Thorin had knocked upon his door.  It would have been a pale mockery, unfit for this great and hallowed king.

“Good-bye, Thorin.  Fili.  Kili.”  He looked at each in turn, and bowed as he said their names, “Take your rest until Mahal remakes the world.”

With this as his final farewell, Bilbo straightened fully, tugged at his lapels, and then turned and walked away.  Toward Frodo, and home.  He did not look back

***

Many, many, many years later, after the terrible business of Sauron,  his ring, the Fellowship, and their many battles and adventures, Samwise Gamgee stood at the edge of the western sea.  With him were his daughter Eleanor, and Merry and Pippin, come to say farewell to their friend and father.  Before Sam boarded his little ship, he gave his girl two things.  The first was a large book, with well worn pages and a bright red leather cover, filled with tales both extraordinary and true.  The other was a wreath of flowers.

“For Mr. Bilbo.”, he explained, “Mr. Frodo asked me to do it, even though Mr. Bilbo wasn’t dead yet, and I never got 'round to it.  Afore now.”

He brushed a stray curl behind her ear, and smiled at her.

“I don’t much understand the why of it, Elli, but it meant something to Mr. Frodo.  So, if you could throw it in the water after I’m gone, I’d sure be glad.”

The following farewells were as tearful and heartfelt as if at a deathbed or over a grave.  All of them knew this would be the last time. Merry and Pippin clung to each other, in silent thanks for someone still left to share the burden of old memories, and Eleanor cried freely.

And so, as Sam Gamgee, faithful gardener,  loyal companion,  beloved friend, and the last ring-bearer of Middle Earth, sailed away from the only land he had ever known, his daughter threw the ring of flowers he had given her into the dark water.

Adonis, cardinal flowers, elderberry blossoms, and daisies floated away in a last tribute to the hobbit who had started it all.

Then, at the edge of the sea, with her father’s boat only a dull smudge on the horizon, Eleanor Gamgee opened that leather bound book.  There, at the top of the very first page, in a spidery scrawl were the words:

_There and Back Again: A Hobbit’s Tale_

_By: Bilbo Baggins_

She looked up into the falling sunset and smiled.

**Author's Note:**

> Flower meanings:  
> -Gladiolus: Strength of character, faithfulness, and honor. Also signifies rememberance  
> -Edelweiss: Daring and noble courage  
> -Delphinium: Fun, lightness of heart  
> \- Pale rose: friendship  
> -Hyachinth  
>  (Red):playfulness/ extreme rashness  
>  (purple): Sorrow, I'm sorry/ forgive me  
> -Crocus: youthful gladness, cheerfulness  
> -Sunflower: Adoration and dedication/ Also a symbol of haughtiness  
> -Arbutus: Only thee do I love  
> -Adonis: Recollection of life's pleasures  
> -Cardinal (also called the Lobelia XD): Distinction and splendor  
> -Daisy: Gentleness, innocence, and loyal love  
> -Elderberry: Humility and kindness


End file.
